Author, Explain Thyself
by Mistress V
Summary: Torture is torture is torture...or is it? Mistress V is called upon by the HH boys to explain some things. A PARODY, companion to the FanFic Court pieces. Cotains L&O and CSI:NY elements too.
1. Chapter 1

Author, Explain Thyself (T, to be safe)

by Mistress V

_**This is what happens when I let my muse take over. She gets crazy! Throw in too little sleep (skating mania has me right now) and voila, lunacy. I was inspired by the current Mary Sue story about to unfold. In this little piece, my persona, Mistress V, is asked to justify certain elements of her creations, even though they are not construed as torture. Or are they? I make reference to incidents from "I'll Be Seeing You" in this story, one of my HH works.**_

_**Disclaimers: Oh, come ON! HH, Law and Order and CSI: New York all belong to their respective Powers That Be. What I create (and that includes my alter ego, Mistress Dean V of Hudson Law School), belongs to me. Another disclaimer: This is MEANT TO BE A PARODY! If you no like, you no gotta read, 'kay? Thank you!**_

Reeney Manford let herself into the office. It was still very early, although the spring sunshine had already been lighting up Manhattan, despite cool March temps. Now would be the perfect time to get extra work done so she could have the weekend off, as promised, for her cousin's baby shower on Long Island.

06:30. Yawning, Reeney started a pot of coffee and booted up the computer. Her boss was right, this *was* the best part of the day. Quiet, fresh, uncomplicated. She almost envied her superior, cantering through the mists in Central Park at that hour, though the idea of horseback riding was still a bit daunting to embrace. Ponies, sure. Horses? Nope. Too big.

A tap on the door interrupted her work a bit later. She glanced at the wall clock. 07:15? Who on earth, and why were they knocking? Maybe it was maintenance.

"Come in! It's open!"

The knob turned, and then a middle aged gentleman peered around the half-open door. He smiled halfheartedly in Reeney's direction. "Good morning, Fraulein," he began politely.

"Can I help you? Please, step inside." She indicated a chair.

Another man pushed past his companion and strutted over to Reeney's desk, followed by two others.

"May we see Vee?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?" The assistant sized the visitor up and down.

He was dressed in some kind of attempt at an Army Air Corps uniform, though his spit-shined brown lace-ups had never seen any real action. She shrugged, thinking another miniseries was being filmed nearby. The extras always wandered in, looking for a real john.

"Who?"

"Vee. Some little girl? Is the dean her mom? I mean, it sounds like she's ---" The man faltered.

"We presume her tile of Mistress indicates she is still a juvenile, perhaps an adolescent? It was a polite form of address in the not too distant past." The bald-headed man now stepped forward, clicking his heels and bowing slightly. "We wish to speak with her, if there is no objection?"

Reeney let her eyes wander around discretely. Was this some new kind of reality show? Where lost time travelers try to find their way somewhere in another century? This one was kitted out in WW2 Luftwaffe officer's issue, right down to the boots that her boss would probably covet.

She finally spoke. "The Dean has no children. You must be referring to her nome de plume? Mistress V? Well, boys, I have good news and bad news. The good news is that Vee and the dean are the same woman. The bad news is, she's not here. Business doesn't start until at least 08:30. So I'm sorry, you can't see her."

"Look, sister, don't be cute with me." The Air Corps man, a colonel by the look of it, wasn't very pleased with the casual reply. "We want to see this dean or mistress or whatever she calls herself. It's important, we don't have a lot of time. You obviously know where she is, so find her. Don't you have those fancy portable telephones, like mini walkie-talkies?"

"Easy, sir." A third man stepped forward now, a soft-spoken African American dressed in Army greens.

"Are youse trying to be wiseguys? I told you, she ain't here. If you wanna make an appointment, that's fine, but the earliest my boss can see you is next week. She's booked." Reeney could play hardball right back and she did.

"Something wrong, Ms. Manford?" Another male voice, edged in steel, joined the discussion.

"Hi Detective Taylor! Why are you here at this hour? Oh, these gents were asking to make an appointment with the dean, that's all."

"No, we want to see her. Now." The U.S. colonel folded his arms across his chest.

Taylor handed over a file to the assistant. "It's specs for the recruiting event Vee wanted. I was passing by so thought I'd drop it off personally." The detective eyed the men, his mind in overdrive. Then realization dawned.

"I know you three!" he exclaimed, jabbing a finger in the trio's direction. "You're from that cockamamie fan fiction trial that has the courthouse so clogged up right now. You're not supposed to be here as it is, so unless you start showing some manners to the lady here, I'll take you over to a REAL prison camp---Riker's Island. Somehow, I think Stalag 13 would be the Pierre compared to what we offer. Understood?"

Mac opened his trench coat a little, revealing his holstered weapon. "I have my eye on you, my friends. Behave. And I'd better let the right people know you've somehow escaped custody. You can make your appointment, but then you'd do well to get back to where you need to be. Or else."

"Is that any way to treat a serviceman?" Hogan muttered under his breath.

"It is if you disrespect the badge of honor that uniform of yours stands for," Mac responded tartly, playing it to the hilt. "SIR."

"Must be a Marine," Hogan said as the man departed. "Only a grunt would have the balls."

"May we wait just a bit to see the lady?" Klink interrupted, trying once again for civility. "We won't take much of her time."

"I guess, but remember what Detective Taylor said. If you don't get to court and pronto, you'll be in major hot water." Reeney also now recognized the guests in the office. Another day at Bedlam, she thought to herself.

_______________

Taylor made his way down the hall, wishing he could stay to watch the fracas unfold. He knew the feisty dean could easily take care of herself, but still. It would be nice to see her in action with Larry, Curly and Moe back there.

A couple got off the elevator. The man was dressed down, in jeans, a cambric shirt and a baggy old green Barbour, the style belying the age his white hair hinted at. His companion was horsily attired: field boots, dark training tights, a black microfiber turtleneck and a down shell waistcoat. Her auburn hair spilled out from under a baseball cap that read Starfleet Academy. Both were holding coffee cups and engaged in quiet conversation. It took a moment for Mac to realize he knew them.

"V!" he hissed.

"Ma---!" The woman darted forward to say hello, dragging her companion with her

The detective's quick finger to his lips stopped them both. He motioned they follow him down an alcove.

"Is there a problem, detective?" the D.A. asked.

"Not really, no. I was just dropping off the specs for law day at your office, V. You have visitors. Wanna guess who they are?" Taylor's expression was neutral.

The prospects were too horrific for words. V felt Jack's hand close around hers protectively. "I don't even want to attempt. How bad is it? Did that lunatic who threw the patio furniture off the balcony finally make bail?"

"No," Taylor replied. "He's still at Bellevue, enjoying his rubber room. You have much more entertaining guests. Try Klink, Hogan, and Baker."

"WHAT!" V gasped. "HERE?"

"From the TRIAL? How did they escape custody?" McCoy added, not sure he heard correctly…or that he even wanted to.

"I have no idea, but the three of them are holding court in your reception area, demanding a state audience. Your highness." Taylor bowed slightly, enjoying the fun.

"Oh SH**!" V shook her head. "Now why would they be here…let me think. Am I being subpoenaed?"

"Not by them, you're not," Jack snorted. I'll have thrown it out so fast they won't know what hit them."

"Maybe the cupcakes…" V continued.

"They looked perfectly healthy, V. I don't think it's about the cupcakes. It's more of…an axe to grind, I think. Hogan must have gotten up on the wrong side of his bunk, if you ask me."

"I've got it!" the dean snapped her fingers. "I heard that some of the boys are out for revenge, against all the writers that tortured them. Maybe this is a test balloon of sorts, to see if they can find an author and give the plan a try."

"But you don't torture your characters, V," McCoy said reassuringly.

"No, at least *I* don't think so."

"Neither would the reasonable person on the Clapham omnibus," the D.A. continued.

"Maybe…maybe *THEY* think I've done something bad to them. Well, then they just made a huge mistake. All right, let the games begin!" V turned to Taylor. "I need to borrow your pair, Mac," she deadpanned.

McCoy's eyes threatened to pop out his head. Pair…what pair?

"The real ones?"

"Uh-huh. With the key. Thanks." V pocketed the handcuffs offered by Taylor.

"Look, I'm late, really late. But could one of you let me know how this turns out? I've got to know. Oh, I've got Flack on his way over, to escort your visitors safely back to court." Mac waved good-bye and hurried off to the elevator.

"I won't be a mo, Jack." V pushed open the ladies room door. "Can you wait?"

"I wouldn't miss it." The D.A.'s hand made contact with a nearby cheek.

____________

Once inside the washroom, V swiftly dug through her duffel bag for supplies. She pulled her hair up into a severe bun and secured it with a butterfly clip, smoothing the errant tresses into place with gel. Makeup. Hmm. As a rule, she wore very little but this meeting demanded something dramatic. She weighed options. A scary punk, from her London days, or an icily composed dom? There was no time for the 80's warpaint so she opted for the latter and gave her eyes a quick outline with Midnight Madness kohl pencil and some extreme mascara. A light dusting of colorless Corn Silk powder, for that alabaster skin tone of the 40's. And a final slick of good old Cherries in the Snow lipstick, painted on with Rita Hayworth lusciousness.

V regarded her image in the mirror with an upraised eyebrow. Damn, she looked the same as she had years ago, in another lifetime. She fastened the handcuffs to the Coach black leather belt now around her hips and got out the diving knife she took along when she rode. After a rainy hour once with a horses' tail and some unforgiving brambles, she now carried the porcelain bladed weapon in a sheath attached to her riding boot. The crowning touch was the heavy leather crop, bought at Harrods the last time she visited London, stuck into her other boot, within easy reach if needed. She drew on a well cut black leather jacket over the ensemble and gave her reflection a sinister mmoua.

McCoy's eyes popped out of his head for real this time when his companion returned. He whistled approvingly. V slapped the calf of her boot lightly with the whip for emphasis before returning it to its usual spot.

"Go get 'em, baby," he whispered, letting his hand wander familiar rear territory once more.

"Ha." V laughed harshly. "You know that saying, it could be worse? Well, those bozos just may find out *how* much worse it *could* be. Time to let them know where the Mistress in Mistress V came from."

And with that gauntlet thrown, V led McCoy down the hall to her office door and accepted a kiss on her hand. She sneaked in through the back entrance, took her place at the heavy wooden desk and hit the intercom.

"You may show my appointment in," she intoned, then turned the chair to face the window.

__________________

TBC.

The Reasonable Person/Man on the Clapham Omnibus are standards used in US/UK cases, as in would a reasonable person draw that conclusion. In other words, it's pretty apparent to everyone, not subtle or hidden.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

by Mistress V

Disclaimers as in Chapter 1.

Yes, my father *did* serve at Ft. Lewis, and Camp Hood, in the late days of WW2. What I say about him is 100% true.

____________

"The Dean will see you now," Reeney told the waiting guests.

"Not so fast." Detective Flack stepped forward. "We heard about what happened at the trials, smuggled pierces and lifted items. Time for a frisk."

The trio succumbed to standard procedure without so much as a whimper. They also knew the consequence of malfeasance.

"All right, let 'em in. But no funny stuff. I'll be out here when you're done an' I hate to be kept waiting. Keep it snappy, like!" Flack joined McCoy, the man he loved to hate, back at Reeney's desk, where the intercom was already set to on and fresh coffee was waiting.

____________

"Welcome, gentlemen." V swiveled around in her chair and got up. "Please, do have a seat there on the sofa." She pointed to the room's reception space with her riding crop.

"Now then," she continued, coming around to the front of her desk and perching atop it. "What brings you here to see me this day?"

The trio eyed each other warily. Finally, Klink spoke.

"It was my idea, meine Frau," he began. "It was told to us that you would not be appearing at the trial. Is that correct?"

"It is," V replied succinctly.

"Why?" Hogan asked now.

"I have my reasons." Her gaze silenced him for the present.

"Well, meine…Herrin? Each of us has a…complaint we wish to register, about the way you have portrayed us of late."

"A *complaint*? Oh please continue, Herr Kommandant," V replied, dimpling. "This I simply must hear."

"Well…" Klink went on. "For myself, I must protest that you married me off to Frau Linkmeyer. It is a fate worth than death. In fact, I wish I *were* dead!"

"You do?" V hopped off the desk and began pacing. "Worse than death? Let me get this correctly. Your family was decimated by the end of the war. The estate you knew as a child was now in the hands of, as you said, the Kommunisten. It was turned into a rest camp for Party officials. Isn't that correct?"

"It is," Klink responded. His face started falling.

"So let's see. Would you have preferred to be captured by the Soviets, and exiled to the steppes of Siberia and all the Stalinist gulags that dotted that desolate landscape? Or perhaps the Gestapo should have shot you, on suspicion of being a collaborator. No, instead of being let off lightly by the Americans, maybe Nuremburg would have best suited you. Is that what you had in mind? With one revision, I could make it so."

Klink looked ashen. "No," he whispered. "Not that."

"Then let us review the facts. I had your family run away to the Americans, because you warned them the Soviets were not to be trusted. You and Albert got off very lightly prison-wise due to the commendations Papa Bear and his superiors offered. I gave you a nephew who worked to free your country from divided rule and lead it to reunification---in addition to being a musician of note. You I married off to Frau Gertrude because her family afforded the scrags of yours some semblance of acceptance. Let me ask you, Herr Kommandant. Do you not have food on the table, a tidy home and a pleasant life?"

"I do," Klink admitted stubbornly. "But what if some gorgeous young madchen gives me the eye? I am married…to a _**Hexerei**_ of…fifty years! It is a death sentence!"

"I AM FIFTY!" V's eyes blazed as she leaned in close to Klink. "And I am no _**Hexerei**_. I shall admit, times are different and my age is no longer construed to be a death sentence. But your wife keeps your home, balances the books, entertains your guests, mends your clothes and is a companion to you, my friend. That's how things were back then. I did the math. You are just as aged as she is, if not more. What did you think would await you after the war, a Bacchian orgy? What do you have to entice a nubile young woman? There is no money, no title, nothing but the man you are---a good, hardworking one. Frau Gertrude is likewise a good woman who you refused to see properly because you were blinded by empty looks. She is a fine wife to you. Trust me, if it wasn't for my late father, you'd be at a far worse station in life."

"Your father? Please, tell me more," Klink asked, his curiosity piqued. He surreptitiously eyed the woman. Fifty? She must be joking. Gertrude never looked that fine on a good day.

"He served at Ft. Lewis in the late years of the war. Working with German prisoners of war, thanks to his language ability. And he learned that most of them were just like we were here in America, plain ordinary people. Once they learned he was a musician, the boundaries were down. They all made music together. He corresponded with some of the men until they died. A simple thing like a shared interest touched him for life. Papa played the violin, Herr Klink. So in his honor, from what he shared with me of those times, I gave you the ability to keep playing with your nephew. Is that so terrible a fate?"

Klink ran a finger under his uniform shirt collar, sweating by now. "I see your point, meine Frau," he conceded.

"Very well. " V pointed at Baker. "And what's your issue, sir?' she asked pleasantly.

__________________

TBC, naturally.

Hexerei is a wicth, i couldn't find a translation for old hag. Sorry. A Herrin is, according to my dictionary, Mistress of a manor, or perhaps a special manor. Klink hasn't made the conection yet to tops and bottoms.


	3. Chapter 3

**_OK, BIG FAT DISCLAIMER HERE: I am not going to turn this into a history or social anthropology lesson, though I am going to touch on one of the biggest anomalies in the show: Baker's and Kinch's presence. The U.S. Army was not desegregated until after the war. The series, on the other hand, came about post Civil Rights Act, when Hollywood was under orders to desegregate. Problem was, that effectively rewrote some history in the shows of the era, as my father (a liberal man, a teacher, and a WW2 vet) used to say all the time. I pay homage to the Red Tails and the Black Panthers here, two exceptional fighting units of black soldiers and airmen. The references I make to being colored are not meant to be disrespectful. That's how things were, sad to say._**

**_As for hard core canonists, they exist in nearly any fanfic universe._**

Author, Explain Thyself, Chapter 3

by Mistress V

"Well, ma'am," Baker replied. "It isn't so much of a complaint as a question. You made me invisible. Why?"

"It wasn't intentionally meant that way, Sergeant. This is a difficult thing to explain in a short period of time. I'll paint two pictures. One about the show, and one in a broader context. All right?" V set down her whip and folded her hands in her lap, thinking.

"That's fine, ma'am," Baker told her.

"All right. The easiest explanation I can give you is that I was following a rather archaic rule of fandom writing. You don't exist, period. "

"I beg your pardon?" Klink interjected. "How can this man not exist when he sits here the same as any of us?"

"I mean, it appears he came into the camp past midway during the hostilities. One day, Kinch was there on the radio. The next, it was Baker. Nothing ever was said, not by Col. Hogan nor anyone else, about what happened. In fact, we knew practically nothing about Sgt. Baker, while Kinch had indicated he lived in Detroit, was a plumber's helper in college and had worked at one time for the telephone company. It appeared Baker here was a replacement for an original character, something viewed dimly by a certain type of fan…or fanatic. Do you understand so far?" V asked, conscious this was deep water in which she swam.

"I can explain about Baker, miss-?" Hogan began.

"That's not necessary, Colonel. And you all may address me as ma'am. After all, I am hardly the teenaged scrawler some would peg me as. I take no offense." V smiled at the three and continued.

"Anyway. Some hardcore fans of any fandom believe that anything deviating from the original premise simply does not exist in that universe. Woe betide an Ensign Chekov, a Chief Sharkey, a Charles Emerson Winchester , a Paris the Great or any other new character. They are deemed unworthy of canon status in many cases, with former characters, such as Henry Blake, Yeoman Rand, Chief Curly or others cropping up in author's works instead, rather like in a time capsule. And it is much worse for a character that essentially remains the same but is replaced by a different portrayer. Darrin Stevens springs to mind. And so does your wife, Herr Klink, if you get my drift?"

Klink nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I seem to recall a rather odd meeting once. Gertrude looked---different."

"Not to mention his secretaries," Hogan added, smiling at the memory of not one, but two gorgeous blondes. "But they were different ladies, I can assure you."

"Anyway, Sgt. Baker, the story you mention was more about the postwar era and centered on Hogan, something I'll get to when he and I chat. As my father once said, sometimes you just need to leave things as they are, rather than try to explain everything to everyone. So for the sake of the story, I simply had Kinch remain throughout and continue his friendship with Hogan after the war ended. As for the other adventure, I was not sure if you had joined the group yet so I went with what I knew best. For that, I apologize. And I promise in my next offering, you will feature. Is that amenable?"

"That'd be fine, ma'am. Apology accepted." Baker smiled at the woman.

"There is another issue I'll touch on, though, one that can give even the best writer a headache. I presume you and Kinch have been keeping up with the world outside during this interesting situation you're in?"

"It'd be hard not to," Baker replied, grinning now. "Man, one of our own people at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. My mom'd never believe it. A colored president!"

"Precisely, " V stated. "As much as we love both your characters, Sergeant, if things were kept historically accurate, neither of you would have been with Hogan and his group. Disgraceful as it was, the U.S. Army of that time was still separate but equal, as was most of the country. Correct?"

"Absolutely." Baker's nod was firm, as was his mouth.

"So, then. Let me ask you this. Were you a Red Tail, or a Black Panther?"

Baker looked somewhat blank. Then he shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I asked if you were with the Tuskegee airmen, or part of the 761st Tank Battalion. Those were the main fighting units composed of black soldiers. Otherwise, how would you have ended up at Stalag 13? You would have had to been seeing action, combat, close to the front lines---flying, most likely. And there's another problem. Most of these servicemen---and women, there were nurses as well---didn't get to the war until much later in the conflict. They had to learn not only to fight, but to fight for their right to serve and defend America." V's stomach began to hurt. This was not an easy period of history to discuss. "That was likely after you both were at Klink's establishment."

"Black soldiers?" Now Baker looked confused.

"I'm sorry. Colored soldiers. Apart from those two units, you would have been assigned to building roads, bases, or being in the service industries, away from the major fighting. Of course, there were exceptions, but not many. You may have been mess man at an officer's club, perhaps a bartender. A driver. But a radio operator in a covert ops group? It didn't jive with the time, no matter how great your fellow cell members were. But when Colonel Hogan's operation was conceived, it was the start of the wave that led the man you now see in Washington on his path. The authorities decreed that everyone was equal, even if it meant rewriting how things were originally portrayed. Since then, there have been improvements and exceptions can now be made for the sake of historical accuracy, and that is a good thing. Too confusing otherwise. And to mention my dad again, he served first in Camp Hood, where the Panthers trained. And then in Ft. Lewis, with Germans POW's as I said. He did say that not all the prisoners were cooperative. The presence of your people, even in service positions, angered and infuriated many of them. So life for you in a German-run POW camp might not nearly have been so…comfortable? If that makes sense?"

"I see," Baker observed. "So in reality, we shouldn't have been where we were, is that what you're saying?"

"Sadly, yes. But that kind of issue is not one to tackle in fan fiction, so apart from our discussion here, I don't even attempt to. Case closed, gents." V got up and hit the intercom. "Let's have a break before we continue. May I offer you coffee? Tea? Soda?"

"I believe we would all enjoy some coffee," Klink replied. "Wouldn't we?" His companions nodded.

"Three coffees, Reeney, if you could? Some Milanos, mint and regular both, too. And one Diet Dr. Pepper for me." The meeting demanded a decadent but delicate snack.

V's assistant jumped back from her vantage post at the intercom, along with her two fellow listeners and hurried to put a tray together, assisted by the ever helpful Flack. They looked at the office clock and were relieved to see it was just 08:30, plenty of time before trial commenced at 10:00.

McCoy leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, and mused. He could see now how the AmJur award in Constitutional Law came to have pride of place on V's bookshelf. The woman was a pistol. No, a blade. A sharp one, like the one she wore in her boot.

That's my girl, he thought to himself.

TBC, of course 

_______________

V ordered Pepperidge Farms Milano cookies for her guests, Yum, yum.

The AmJur award (at least when I was in law school here in California) was awarded to the person who obtained the highest grade in a particular class. The prize is a treatise volume on the subject, suitably embellished with the person's name, year, etc.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Note: Bob Crane's height is listed as 5'10". This *may* be with lifts, which many actors wore (and still do) to make them appear taller in real life. In set lighting 101, the first thing you learn is that it is more difficult to light a taller person. Yes, there are exceptions (Jeff Goldblum, anyone?) but most actors are shorter in stature than you might imagine. WW2 likewise saw shorter men in some major roles on the premise that it was easier for them to maneuver in tight spaces. Among these were submarines (honest!)…and often, fighter planes, especially in the cockpit. So I am guessing Hogan's about 5'8" or so. Me, I'm 5'10 barefoot, and my field boots have a nice 1" heel on them _**

**_And yes I know Bob Crane married his costar. But Bob is not Hogan!_**

Writer, Explain Thyself , Chapter 4

by Mistress V

The coffee break over, V put down her soda can and once again picked up her riding crop, noticing Klink looking at it with respect. It was a hunting model, heavy duty stuff for encouraging mounts over stone walls and hedges, but necessary for riding in Central Park in case something untoward happened---which it did now and then. Pesky, yappy dogs were a common reason horses got spooked.

"All right, Colonel Hogan. You obviously have a complaint as well. Out with it, please." She pointed her whip at the third man.

"You bet I do!" Hogan sprang to his feet, the polar opposite of the airman who'd been pleasantly enjoying coffee and cookies moments before.

"You ended the war!" he shouted.

"Me? I am omnipotent?" V tried for levity. "Am I that powerful that I can bring about the end of so immense a conflict? You underestimate me, Colonel. The opposing parties signed treaties of surrender, not I. Now please, sit down."

"Like HE** I will!" Hogan yelled back. "No lady tells a U.S. Army Aircorps Colonel what to do…ma'am!"

V slid off the desk and closed the space between the two with one long stride, her expression arctic.

"You forget, Colonel, in whose office you are standing," she said evenly. "I give the orders here. Sit down, please."

"Never!" Hogan remained defiant, though he soon ascertained the woman in front of him had a good three inch advantage in the height department.

A whipstroke shushed between the two, hitting V's boot at ankle level. The sound echoed around the room, but the giver of the self-inflicted lash didn't even flinch.

"I *said* sit down, Colonel. Or else my aim might not be so…careful next time." V's eyes bored holes into Hogan.

He did as asked, though he raked the woman suggestively, sensing the baser instinct that was beginning to surface.

"Gaze down, sir," V continued. "I am not accepting applications for new submissives to be trained at this point. "

In the anteroom, Jack McCoy's expression morphed into one of surprise. He felt color spread on his face. Holy Sh*t, he thought.

Back in the office, the penny finally dropped for Klink. He recalled a long weekend in Hamburg, during his student days, where he and his classmates had visited the city's notorious red light district, the Reeperbahn.

"Sie ist ein dominatrix!" he whispered to himself. "Mein Gott!"

Baker, who'd spent plenty of time in both New Orleans and Harlem, just leaned back, enjoying the show.

"Now as I was saying, Colonel. You seem to have an issue with the war ending. Well, I have news for you. It ended in 1945. Germany and Japan came up the losers. That bothers you?"

"Yeah, it does. You yanked me out of Stalag 13 into the future. Why would you do that?' Hogan asked sullenly, clearly not enjoying being put in his place by a woman.

"A wise and astute man once said these words when I was a child, which I paraphrase," V began, sitting back down but keeping her whip close at hand. "It basically went, 'There are those who say why, and those who say, why not?' I'm a curious soul, I'll be the first to admit. That extended to the war. Maybe it was learning about it all from my father, but I started to wonder, how would the end of the war affect Stalag 13? And from there, I wrote my story. A bigger picture, if you will. Something different from all those tunnel cave-ins, encounters with the SS, torture fests, Mary Sue epics, escaping defecting scientists, renegade agents, and downed fliers. I mean , please---there are plenty of excellent offerings out there about that, from humor to angst to romance. I wanted to explore outside the box. The war had to end, Colonel. How did people cope? What happened to them? So I wrote that about you."

"All right," Hogan conceded. But then you went and married me off---to---"

V held up a hand, which held a whip. "One step at a time, Colonel," she instructed, getting up once again to pace back and forth.

Hogan shifted in his seat, unable to say anything more. His expression was sour.

"If I guess correctly, you wanted to remain the playboy of the free world, is that right?" she continued.

Hogan nodded.

"I'm afraid you got caught in a timeframe conundrum," V apologized. "The show was set in WW2, but written at the beginnings of the sexual revolution. Leading men were suddenly free to kiss women---open mouthed, even---who they had no intention of seeing again. A heady period, but unfortunately not in keeping with postwar decorum."

"I also kissed many women," Klink offered.

"Yes, I'll agree with that. However, postwar morals were very strict. War may have created some unusual pairings, but at the end of the day, the fighting men and women went home and got married and started the baby boom." V smiled now. "I was a product of that boom myself."

"Everyone? Surely not?" Klink persisted.

"No, not every man. But unmarried males fell into fairly strict categories. Ministry to all faiths, of course. There were doting mama's boys, who remained single to care for their parent. Some were playboys, if they had money, which you two did not. Some gigolos, too, but those men also needed a private income. The vast majority ended up sleeping on a relative's couch, commonly known as a bum. In time some became alcoholics and roamed the streets, unable to readjust to civilian life. Or…there was one other pigeonhole. You were a member of that unusual fraternity of unmarried males that dared not speak its name. Tell me, Colonel, which category would you like to be? I can rewrite things to corroborate your choice."

Hogan considered the options available. "I see what you mean. Go on," he invited. "But why this woman? I knew so many!"

"Again, the show was written during the first phase of societal sexual freedom. Leading males were undoing their zippers all over the galaxy. It was fun to bed multiple partners. But Colonel, every single one of the women you canoodled with might have been regarded as collaborators by their own people. That meant you would have to marry the female and take her home to the U.S, where you'd have to deal with her homesickness, loneliness and isolation. At the end of the day for many war brides, of both sexes, love did not conquer all. It hasn't in the past and it doesn't necessarily do so now."

"What about…" Hogan attempted.

"I'll list the obvious choices. Hilda and Helga both helped your cause, which would brand them as traitors to many Germans. They may have met up with some unhappy countrymen. Maraya was for the partisans. She'd have been shot, no question, back then, though now she might be deemed a heroine. And Tiger, well yes, I pondered that one. Let me ask you this, Colonel. Which faction did her group report to?" V crossed her arms, whip included, and looked down at Hogan.

"Faction?" Hogan was stalling, feeling the barrel push into his abdomen.

"Don't play games with me." V tapped the whip gently against his forehead. But not too gently. "CDLR? Front National? Liberation-Sud? Combat? Anarchist, communist, socialist, royalist? Perhaps the save my ass-ist?"

It was clear Hogan did not have the answer. He simply shrugged.

"Bottom line, Colonel. Depending on how the cards fell, Tiger may not have lasted the war. And I don't mean the Nazis got her, it may have been her own people. The epuration sauvage was only the beginning of a long period of unrest among the French. Even if she survived the purges, postwar France was a chaos of government factions, all at odds with each other. You would have had to escape with her, but even then, she may not have been safe. The arms of the maquis reached well into the late 20th century and innocent people still paid for perceived wartime transgressions. I could not risk that for you."

A long sigh escaped Hogan. Klink and Baker were staring openly at the man, who clearly was at a loss. "Yeah, you're right," he mumbled. He'd always suspected Tiger's heart belonged to someone else, and that someone was French.

"And so, ma'am?" Klink began slowly. "Tell us how you came to choose this Peggy for our friend here?"

"I saw Hogan as a strong man, as many characters of that time were written. Driven, willful, smart, risk-takers, aggressive even. It incensed me Hollywood paired them up with fluffballs, simply because eye candy was so much more appealing than brains." V let her whip strike her boot again for emphasis.

No one moved.

"I don't mind eye candy," Hogan eventually said.

"No man does, Colonel. At the end of the day, you were perceived as quite a piece of work, in a good way. Extraordinary, even. So I knew the woman you ended up with would have to be extraordinary, too. Anything less would bore you, drive you to distraction."

"This Peggy. Who is she? I've heard it said she's just a Mary Sue---whatever that is," Hogan asked.

V's eyes blazed like hot coals. "Damn them," she muttered, smacking the desk with the whip in her hand. "Of course she isn't. I researched for weeks to give her the family background that might offer you, Colonel, the opportunity to keep doing what you loved, flying and espionage. Everything from her studying at Cambridge, which didn't officially recognize women's degrees back then, to the pen I had you give her, to her stepfather and stepbrother's backgrounds in the spy business. I cobbled her together from several female characters I admired. Dana Scully, Katherine Hepburn and Carlye Breslin Wilson. Mostly the latter. And then I just had nature take its course. The only thing I gave her of mine was my eyecolor, which is green. Green eyes alone are not the mark of a Mary Sue. And she's just a secondary character, remember. The story's about you."

"Who's that last one?" Baker queried, intrigued at the shadow of vulnerability he'd seen pass across the woman's features.

"A lady that captured the heart of another extraordinary man, Dr. Hawkeye Pierce. They both served in a war that's yet to come in your timeline. Only their love story didn't have a nice finish to it. I decided to change that." V shook her head. "Sorry to say, chaps, but war will continue as long as people have differences of opinions. It's a fact of life." She paused, addressing Hogan once again. "Speaking about the facts of life, I suppose you wondered about the child, didn't you?"

"It's crossed my mind," Hogan replied flippantly. "I mean, no one asked me if I wanted kids."

"Children were part of the postwar bay boom, Colonel. And considering the amount of ladies you kissed, you're lucky you don't have an entire baseball team on your hands."

"Huh?" Hogan grunted.

"The censors of the time put paid to any consequences of all those lips you nibbled. Of course, it was implied there was plenty of horizontal mambo going on between you and your agents provocateurs. Only the Red Cross packages didn't include something for the weekend, did they? Thankfully, the censors ruled out your having to deal with such everyday happenings as unwanted pregnancy...or worse. War brought together all kinds of people, Colonel. Has done and will do. One of the side effects is the children born of those liasons. I chose to give you one with dignity and respect, sparing you illegitimacy, scandal, teething, croup and toilet training. Maybe I just like a happy ending. You're flying, a *general* now, you're with a beautiful and intelligent wife, you're raising a fine son, you get to play spy now and then, and the U.S. government says it's OK. Is that so awful?" Drained, V sat down behind her desk once more.

There was silence for some time in the office.

"I…guess not," Hogan finally admitted. "To be honest, running all those missions out of Stalag 13 got to be old after awhile. When did the war end?"

"1945," V told him with a smile.

Further speculation was interrupted by the intercom's buzz. Reeney informed her boss that it was time for the visitors to be escorted to the courthouse. Trial was about to recommence for the day.

"Here," V said as the guests were about to depart. She handed Hogan the leftover Milanos in their package. "Not as good as the Magnolia Bakery's cupcakes, but they'll help you through the morning."

"Cupcakes?" Hogan made the connection. "Did you---?"

V placed a finger to her lips and winked. "Shoo," she commanded.

Klink held back for a moment. He caught V's hand in his and gave it a fine European styled kiss, his eyes sparkling.

"My lady, have we not met before, perhaps?"he asked hopedully.

V tickled the side of his face with her crop. "Only in your dreams, my little schnitzel. Now run along like a good Kommandant, you're wanted at trial."

"Until we meet again," Klink began, then his expression turned to one of surprise as whip met glute.

V blew him a kiss as he hurried out the door. Then she closed it, sat down at the desk and banged her forehead against the smooth wood, sighing in exasperation.

What next, she thought.

TBC.

___________

The French resistance was indeed composed of every concievable faction, many of which were normally at odds with each other. They banded together for the common good, but postwar France was not a pleasnt spot. I only list about half of them here.

"Someting for the weekend," refers to condoms, asked by barbers of ther clients for many years. "Something for the weekend, sir?"

I've been tempted to write a story called "Daddy?" and set it in HH or ST:TOs. Kirk and Hogan would have plenty to answer for!


	5. Chapter 5

Author, Explain Thyself, Conclusion

by Mistress V

Disclaimers as in Chapter 1.

______________

V pillowed her head on her arms and willed herself back to composure. This was the absolute end. Enough to make her run off to the Cayman Islands for research on the legalities of offshore banking. Or at least to hide in bed for a weekend, with only cats and movies for company. Well, Jack was headed up to Albany for the state D.A. conference the next day. Too bad her inbox was once again stuffed to the gills, and now Miss Marple wanted to take her to a show on Saturday night, just for fun.

She sighed. It just never ended, did it?

There was a knock on the door.

"Yeah, what?" V didn't even try for civility, besides, there were no appointments on the book that she knew of.

Jack McCoy came in and wandered over. She sensed the feel of his hand massaging the stiffness aching up and down the back of her neck. A purr escaped her.

"You never called me you little schnitzel," her paramour said, amused. "How does that Prussian flyboy there rate above me? And what's this about…submissives?"

"It was another life," V moaned into her elbows, not willing to go there…again. "Please, Jack, drop it. I had to play a role today and I did. Think of all those times you went before a jury and did the same thing."

McCoy wasn't about to give up so easily. "What do I need to do so you can call me your little schnitzel?" he persisted.

V sat up, regarding the man. There was humor in his eyes…and curiosity? Well, that killed too many felines, she thought. No.

"All right, get me my bootjack, OK? I have to get out of these things." Her toes were killing her.

"I'll do better than that," he replied. His fingers untied the boot laces and in two swift movements, he'd divested her of the cumbersome, but oh so sexy, equestrian footgear. "How's that, Mistress? What next? May I draw you a bath?"

"Cool it, baby." V got up and embraced the cocky D.A. "There aren't bathtubs here. And speaking of that, I need to hop in the shower and change back into academic woman."

"Wash you back, ma'am?" McCoy teased, tightening his grip on her waist.

"It's not coed here, mister. How would it look if the D.A. were caught in flagrante delicto in a women's bathroom?" V enjoyed the game. "With a law school dean?"

"There goes my re-election," McCoy sighed. He released his quarry. "I'll meet you after work, how's that? We can have a video night, my flight doesn't leave until tomorrow morning at 11. Where'll you be?"

V frowned, hitting her computer keyboard for the day's schedule. "Student Government this morning, the appeals board. Ugh. Then lunch with Miss Marple, maybe some time in the gallery. Not sure about the afternoon. I'll let you know."

"Sounds fair. Well, guess I'd better go earn my paycheck." McCoy stole one last kiss before he headed off to another day of legalities.

After showering away all her sins, V dressed in casual attire. She smiled as she read the wording on her favorite T-shirt, printed in stark white on deep black. "Only lawyers and painters can change black to white," she laughed. "Yeah, someone got it right."

"Any messages of note?" she asked her assistant when she got back to the office. Hard to believe, but it was just 10:15.

Reeney wrinkled her nose. "You're not gonna like this, boss. Carmina Salvodelli needs to see you about a leave of absence. Says it's urgent. And tragic, naturally."

"AGAIN?" V's stomach started closing around itself in horror. This was one of the most painful thorns in her side, and that was saying a great deal. "What for this time?"

"She needs family leave, to care for a dying relative. " Reeney rolled her own eyes now.

"But didn't three of her relations all die last year, of some horribly complicated malady? Is there anyone left to die in her family?" This was making no sense. Life for that student was one litany of sorrows after another, and she let the whole world know it, too. That, and just who her 'family' was.

"Apparently they came back to life, dug themselves up and are dying all over again," her assistant shrugged. "Go figure. What should I tell her? She's called 6 times."

"I need to get together with Dr. Sigmund," V replied, sensing the need for a consult with the student health department's resident shrink. "Tell her I'm in conference for the day and will get back to her later in the week. "

It never *did* end, V realized. She hit Jack's number on her phone and informed him she'd be in court all afternoon, watching the proceedings from the gallery. If she had to endure lunacy, this was the best kind of lunacy to endure.

_________________

"What's on the screen for tonight?" V asked, noticing the Blockbuster bag in McCoy's hand when he met her later.

"I thought if we had to put up with the lunacy, as you called it, we should do it correctly." He pulled out a copy of "Delirious". "How's this grab you, kiddo?"

V just laughed. It might not ever end, but at least it could be funny.

_____________

FIN

"Delirious" is the John Candy film where he has to write himself out of one ridiculous scenario after another. Great stuff!


End file.
